Feet of Clay

Street was clean, with the haunting, empty cleanliness you get when people can’t afford to waste dirt. For Cockbill Street was where people lived who were worse than poor, because they didn’t know how poor they were. If you asked them they would probably say something like “mustn’t grumble” or “there’s far worse off than us” or “we’ve always kept uz heads above water and we don’t owe no-body nowt.”
    He could hear his granny speaking. “No one’s too poor to buy soap.” Of course, many people were. But in Cockbill Street they bought soap just the same. The table might not have any food on it but, by gods, it was well scrubbed. That was Cockbill Street, where what you mainly ate was your pride.
    What a mess the world was in, Vimes reflected. Constable Visit had told him the meek would inherit it, and what had the poor devils done to deserve that?
    Cockbill Street people would stand aside to let the meek through. For what kept them in Cockbill Street, mentally and physically, was their vague comprehension that there were rules . And they went through life filled with a quiet, distracted dread that they weren’t quite obeying them.
    People said that there was one law for the rich and one law for the poor, but it wasn’t true. There was no law for those who made the law, and no law for the incorrigibly lawless. All the laws and rules were for those people stupid enough to think like Cockbill Street people.
    It was oddly quiet. Normally there’d be swarms of kids, and carts heading down towards the docks, but today the place had a shut-in look.
    In the middle of the road was a chalked hopscotch path.
    Vimes felt his knees go weak. It was still here! When had he last seen it? Thirty-five years ago? Forty? So it must have been drawn and redrawn thousands of times.
    He’d been pretty good at it. Of course, they’d played it by Ankh-Morpork rules. Instead of kicking a stone they’d kicked William Scuggins. It had been just one of the many inventive games they’d played which had involved kicking, chasing, or jumping on William Scuggins until he threw one of his famous wobblers and started frothing and violently attacking himself.
    Vimes had been able to drop William in the square of his choice nine times out of ten. The tenth time, William bit his leg.
    In those days, tormenting William and finding enough to eat had made for a simple, straightforward life. There weren’t so many questions you didn’t know the answers to, except maybe how to stop your leg festering.
    Sir Samuel looked around, saw the silent street, and flicked a stone out of the gutter with his foot. Then he booted it surreptitiously along the squares, adjusted his cloak, and hopped and jumped his way up, turned, hopped—
    What was it you shouted as you hopped? “Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper”? No? Or was it the one that went “William Scuggins is a bastard”? Now he’d wonder about that all day.
    A door opened across the street. Vimes froze, one leg in mid-air, as two black-clothed figures came out slowly and awkwardly.
    This was because they were carrying a coffin.
    The natural solemnity of the occasion was diminished by their having to squeeze around it and out into the street, pulling the casket after them and allowing two other pairs of bearers to edge their way into the daylight.
    Vimes remembered himself in time to lower his other foot, and then remembered even more of himself and snatched his helmet off in respect.
    Another coffin emerged. It was a lot smaller. It needed only two people to carry it and that was really one too many.
    As mourners trooped out behind them, Vimes fumbled in a pocket for the scrap of paper Detritus had given him. The scene was, in its way, funny, like the bit in a circus where the coach stops and a dozen clowns get out of it. Apartment houses round here made up for their limited number of rooms by having a large number of people occupy them.
    He found the paper and unfolded it. First Floor Back, 27 Cockbill Street.
    And this was it. He’d arrived in time for a funeral. Two funerals.

    “Looks like it’s a really bad day to be a golem,” said Angua. There was a pottery hand lying in the gutter. “That’s the third one we’ve seen smashed in the street.”
    There was a crash up ahead, and a dwarf came through a window more or less horizontally. His iron helmet struck sparks as he hit the street, but the dwarf was soon up again and plunging back through the adjacent doorway.
    He